


Linchpin

by Lipush



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Adoption, Alternate History, Angst, Drama, Mystery, Post-Mockingjay, Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipush/pseuds/Lipush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Capitolite girl is taken in an attempt to preserve the revolution's achievements. As young Emmanuelle struggles to find a reason behind all of this, she'll uncover some dark truths, and a plot to bring down Panem on its knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Linchpin

**Author's Note:**

> A-N: Hi, everyone! so, this is my new Hunger Games fanfic. The idea just popped up in my head and I knew I just have to give it a shot. Please read and review.

** **

* * *

 

***~*Linchpin*~***

* * *

 

_**Linch** _ _**·** _ _**pin** _

1\. A person or thing that holds something together: the most important part of a complex situation.

2\. One that serves to hold together parts or elements that exist or function as a unit.

3\. The most important member of a group or part of a system.

* * *

 

**Chapter 1 : Offspring**

My eyes dart upward, back to my teacher as I hear him calling out my name. I'm on my feet in a second, rolling his question back in my mind.

_'Name the four main special units connecting district's centrals to the Capitol.'_

I know the answer to that question, of course, and I memorize and repeat them to Mr. Hallings and the class. "Diamond! Sting!" I shut my eyes momentarily, but still respond to his question, "Dome…!" I open my eyes again. The fourth… what was the forth?

_'Spear'…_ My classmate, Sophia, whispers from her seat behind me.

"Spear, Sir!" I call, thanking Sophie silently.

He nods at me in approval, than finds his next target. "Olivia!" he picks another student.

"Sir!"

"Those were the remaining living victors of the Hunger Games. Name them!"

Olivia, in the back of the room, doesn't need to take a second breather, her long, red braid pouring gracefully down her arms and chest, as she calls out, "Katniss Everdeen! Peeta Mellark! Annaleigh Cresta!" Mr. Hallings paces the class thoughtfully, tapping a long, wrinkled finger on his chin, "Haymitch Abernathy! Beetee Latier!" I notice Mr. Halling shaking his head at each name mentioned, "Johanna Mason! Enobaria Fierce, sir!" she blinks once.

Olivia is the best in our Citizenship Class. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

"Marcus!" Mr. Hallings addresses the bored looking boy at the fifth row, after Olivia is back in her seat. Marcus jumps at that, drawing a giggle from someone behind him, and the irritated glare of our teacher. It's stupid to have your attention slipping during this class. Mr. Hallings is ruthless. "'The Book of Worth' was written by whom?" he challenges.

Marcus rises up a second too late, which won't win him more scores in Mr. Halling's book. But he offers a correct and straight out answer, "The Mockingjay, Sir!"

"Very good," he approves, "Class!" he addresses us all, "Who was the one to execute the enemy of the state, Alma Coin?"

"The Mockingjay, Sir!" we call out in unison.

"To whom we owe our dignity and freedom?"

"The Mockingjay, Sir!" we all thunder.

* * *

 

My name is Emmanuelle.

I'm 15 years old.

And that's basically it.

I'm an adolescent. No need to dig deep to realize my life is pretty boring, as most teenagers.

I live in Evelinge quarter, which is the north-east quarter of the Capitol. Our house is a three-floor building, with an open garden and a pathway leading down the street. We live in the wealthiest part of the Capitol. No complains there.

My father, Ethos Zeisman, is a lieutenant in the 'Diamond Unit' of the Capitol. After the forces of peacekeepers along with the dictatorship were defeated and a new Panem was born, The 'Army of Liberation' was born along with it. No more will soldiers force the districts into hardship and poverty, now it was time for peace. So nearly 20 years ago, new units were assembled, the 'Diamond Unit' was one of the firsts. Its goal? To create a bridge between Capitol and Districts, creating healthy, open trade of goods, clothing and medicine.

It is my father's job to make sure each district traded fairly and smoothly with the Capitol. New markets rose, under the supervision of President Paylor years ago, mostly in areas of food, textile and iron. Branches spread and developed in the districts, and thanks to the revolution's success, many more in Panem now have fresh bread on their dinner table, instead of empty stomachs day and night.

My mother works in a local relief institute. The northern wing is mainly a hospital, while the southern is an orphanage and psychological ward. Many people were left damaged after the war. A generation scarred, scarring its children in the next. My mother does what she can, and I'm proud of her.

I turned 15 three weeks ago. We had a huge party in my house that evening. My mother dressed me in one of her own gowns when she was younger, and I looked like a duchess, covered in purple and gold.

Being my parents' only daughter, they gave me anything they had. Dresses and make up, though I refused surgery. I know from history books that the previous Capitolites used to have them. I didn't like it. It'd made me look phony and common. Like a puppet. I refused the idea quickly.

As school-day was finished, I picked up my bag and made my way towards the exit. Citizenship class as last period was especially exhausting. Mr. Hallings was an old, difficult man, and I heard Bestian, one of my classmates, claiming he was a 'big shot' during the revolution. I guess it made him at least 70 years old, but it won't surprise me. They usually don't talk about their age.

"Hey, Manu, wait up!" a voice calls from behind me, I turn my head and notice Olivia running towards me.

"Hey," I smile at my friend, "Good to see we both survived his rage today, too," I chuckle.

"Who, Hallings?" she slows down as she reaches me, and we walk together, "He's not that bad, really," and to the face I make, she responds, "He just wants us to recall history as it is, make us… better," she thinks aloud, "than they were."

"Yeah. But must he go all 'peacekeeper' about it?" I shake my head, "I swear, you can feel the air leaving the room as soon as he walks in. It's creepy."

We turn down the second alley, just leaving the Kasorie quarter, down the road of Evelinge. Olivia lives on the fifth block, I live on the third. "He's old," she responds, "We're not supposed to criticize old people. That's what mama says, anyway."

I'm about to shake my head at her, when I frown. On the other side of the road, a notice a tall figure, dressed in grey. The man has a dark jacket on him, even though it's late spring, and a hoodie to cover his head. He leans towards us.

"Hey, look," I gesture towards him, Olivia turns to see.

It's a second only. Then she turns to look at me again, "Oh, man. What is it, third time this week?"

I bite my bottom lip, "And it's getting weirder. He follows me at night, too. But never makes a contact. I don't know what his problem is."

We continue walking slowly, the man doesn't flinch, but his posture shows showing he realizes we noticed him. "Hey!" Olivia calls abruptly. "Get lost!"

"Olivia!" my eyes widen, in alarm, "Are you crazy!?" I check to look if he noticed, and sure enough, he half turns, disappearing in one of the street corners.

"What?..." she shrugs, "Look, he's gone."

"For _now_ ," I shake my head disapprovingly, "who knows when he'll be back."

"You really should tell your father about him," Olivia says as we continue our way back home, "I mean, he's not a combat-soldier, but he has contacts, right?"

"I just," a sigh, "I don't want to scare him. He'll freak out knowing I have a stalker. He won't let me leave my room till I'm at least 30." I whine miserably.

"Well, if not your parents, maybe you should write to the civilian-guards." Olivia is trying to be useful, "But I think you should share with them, anyway. What if this guy's bad news?"

I have no answer to that.

* * *

 

As soon as the two girls leave, the tall figure in the hooded jacket pulls out his contact-device, "Attention, team Alpha, this is Harvest on line 2, come in."

Second later, he's answered, "Team Alpha here, this is Nirvana, request for updates."

"Target is on the move. I repeat, target is on the move." His eyes are fixed someplace ahead, as he quickens his steps.

"Roger that, Harvest. Don't lose them."

"Shall I engage?" he asks then.

"Negative. Negative, Harvest. Do not make contact with target under any circumstance, am I clear?"

"Roger that, Nirvana."

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, the door finally opens, as I enter my house. "Mom? Dad?" I call, shutting the door closed with my left leg, "I'm home!"

"Here, Sweetheart!" I hear my mother's voice from the livingroom.

I take the time to breathe in the soft lavender perfume of our home. Unlike many Capitol houses, the color don't scream at us, and we don't swim in richness like most of the quarter's residents tend to believe they do. Our home is painted with soft caramel, lavender and green, furniture of soft white leather.

As I make my way towards the livingroom, I smile, amused. "So…" I say, as I notice my mother tying on my father's best tie, he's dressed in one of his most elegant suits. "What's the occasion?"

"Oh, Emmanuelle!" my mother beams, "your father is getting promoted! Your father, the Captain! Isn't it wonderful?"

"Really?" my heart's immediately filled with pride and joy. The local base finally decided to do him justice, and my father turns from the mirror to look at me, obviously overjoyed. His deep blue eyes sparkle, making him ever more handsome.

"We're gathering at the base to celebrate… the team and I. I asked your mother to join me, but…"

"Oh, nonsense!" my mother smiles, taps his shoulder with affection, "Tonight, it's you and the boys. Tomorrow the family will celebrate the promotion."

I nod at that. "Yes, dad. Besides, I have tons of homework to finish, anyway, so." I shrug.

"Alright," he nods in surrender, and it's just when I hear our phone ringing.

"I'll grab that!" I announce, dropping my bag, leaping towards the upper shelf in the second hall.

I pick up are old-style-golden phone. "Zeisman family," I say cheerfully.

"Ethos Zeisman, please," A man with shaky voice says from the other side of the line.

He sounds funny, but I shrug it off, "In a second," I run back to the livingroom. "Hey, dad, there's someone on the line for you," I say, handing him the phone.

"Oh, thanks," my father says, grabbing the device, "Zeisman, here." He says.

I hear a ruffled buzz, knowing the man on the other side must be saying something, though I cannot figure out what. I do notice my father frowning, with what seems to be a mixture of suspicion and confusion, "Sorry, I'm not…-" he starts, then falls silent.

My mother looks at me, and I shrug. Weird.

"Yes. I understand," my father says. "Thanks for letting me know. It's going to be taken care of. Unfortunately, I'm not interested. Thank you. Thank you." And he hangs up.

To our questioning looks, he answers, "Districts' telemerchants. They've been bothering me all week about giving the red-light to that one. They refuse to get no for an answer." He takes a breath, "Morian, Love, this is when I leave you and our princess for the night." He kisses my mother goodbye, always the gentleman, "Manu, please don't stay up late."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not a little girl anymore, dad."

"Even so. I'll be back by midnight," he makes his way towards the door. Don't wait up."

With that, he leaves.

* * *

 

He's not back by midnight.

At first, we believe he got stuck in traffic, maybe forgotten himself. Perhaps had too much alcohol at the base party. Many reasons.

But an hour later, and he's still not home.

My mother is fixed at the window. Obviously worried. I'm in my Pajamas', sitting next to the table, a cup of milk in my hands. "It's so unlike your father," she says, clearly disturbed, "What if something happened to him?"

I have to admit it is strange, and for a second, my mind wonders to a tall, faceless figure, hiding itself under a grey hoodie. But I shake it off. "I'm sure it's nothing."

But another hour passes, with my father not home and unreachable, and my mother is now a pack of nerves, "Oh, you'll hear from me, Ethos Zeisman!" she mumbles to herself, "If you're alive and well, I'm going to kill you myself!"

I'm nervous myself, by now. _'Where are you, dad?'_ I can't help but thinking.

Just then, the bells rings, and we both jumps.

"Oh, finally!" my mother calls. But that's odd. Since when does dad use the doorbell?

I follow my mother as she opens the door, probably ready to give dad a piece of her mind, when we both freeze.

It's not dad standing in the doorway, but a group of people. I count nine of them.

They're all dressed up in grey, dusty outfits, their faces humid and slightly wet from the rain which just started pouring. Seven men and two women. All serious looking.

Standing in the back, I recognize a tall figure. Dressed up in dark jacket, covered by a hoodie.

My stalker.

Stalker _s_?

Who are these people, coming here so late at night? What is going on?

My lone stalker then removes his coverage, and it's when I see his face. Deep green eyes, messy, red-blonde curls, young face.

Not so dangerous looking. But looks can be deceiving.

A man steps out of the group. He's medium-high, older than the rest, fuller, and more confident. "Morian and Emmanuelle Zeisman?" he asks with formality.

We both nod, confusion not allowing us to say anything more.

"I'm going to ask you both to join us." As he speaks, I get the feeling of some familiarity in him, though I can't put my finger on it. On his shirt's left pocket I notice a number. 3-1-6. I wonder what it means.

My mother shakes out of her shock, "What? Join you?" she asks, "I don't know any of you people. What is going on? Are you military? Where is my husband?" she shoots at them in irritation.

"We'll answer all your question once you accompany us, Mrs. Zeisman," the man says, "But we must hurry, you aren't safe here."

"Aren't safe…-? Who are you?!" my mother loses all patience, and bellows rudely.

He smiles weakly at her, and that's when it clicks. The man. Of course. I know him. I've seen his face countless of times, framed on the wall of our class, speaking on history-class tapes. Dressed in uniform. Only now, he's much older.

He then turns to look at me, his smile broadens. He can tell I recognize him.

"You're the revolution's political chief," I say, eyes widen, "You're Plutarch Heavensbee."

                             


End file.
